


Filthy.

by zodesune



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Masturbation in Shower, Mentions of Corona Virus, Multiple Orgasms, Overhearing Sex, Quarantine, Shower Sex, Spit Kink, Swearing, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Waxing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zodesune/pseuds/zodesune
Summary: When you snuck off campus for a much-needed hookup, you never expected that your friend with benefits might test positive for corona, or that you might have infected the germaphobic asshole you bumped into in the elevator. What was his name again? Ah, right, Sakura.If 'Sakura' didn't already hate you before, he definitely does now that you have been quarantined together in your university's guest apartments. Fourteen days locked up in an apartment with the rudest man you have ever met, a man who has made it clear that he absolutely hates you. What could go wrong?As it turns out, Mr. Squeaky clean might be even filthier than you...
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 250





	Filthy.

“Hold the elevator!”

As you push through the entrance to your college apartment, you see the chrome doors slide open in front of an exceedingly tall man. He steps inside, his dark curls bouncing ever-so-slightly, and you feel a spark of recognition. When he turns, holding his arm against the doorway like the action disgusts him, you pick up your pace, trotting in high heels across the bright, empty lobby. His dark eyes follow you above his starch-white face mask, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Thanks,” you call out breathlessly. _I know this guy. What was his name?—Fuck!_

Your heel catches in the groove, sending you barrelling straight into him. With pantherian reflexes, he reaches for you, stopping you from clattering onto the ground. You find one hand on his surprisingly generous pectoral, the other on the toned bicep that swells beneath his team jacket. With your chest pressed against his lower half, your legs straddling his flexed thigh, you find your body clamouring for another round even though the slick in your underwear has barely dried.

Time slows as you gaze up at the towering volleyball player who saved you. Even in your tipsy state, you don’t miss the way he looks down at you, his pupils dilating and his brow twitching as his eyes flit from your face to the place where your breasts meet his body. He smells like lemon balm and fresh-cut basil, with the sharp scent of disinfectant, as though he recently stepped out of the shower. You wonder what it would take to get him back in it, with you.

“Thank you, uh, Sakura, right?” you blink up at him slowly. Through the haze of your lust, you hear the elevator ding.

Then the asshole drops you.

“What the hell?” you land on hands, elbows, hips, and heels, a tangle of limbs at his feet. You already know your thigh will bruise badly; you won’t be able to wear another skirt all week.

“Which floor?” he asks passively, reaching over you to press the button to his own.

“Are you fucking serious? What is your problem, dude?” you pick up your bruised ego as you clamber to your feet, swiping non-existent dust from your outfit to stop yourself from throttling him with your bare hands.

“You shouldn’t invade someone’s personal space like that. Which floor?” he answers coolly.

With a fierce finger, you jab your own floor—two above his—and whirl back to him, rage coursing through you.

“I tripped!” you rip your mask off one ear, leaving it dangling from the other. “You think I wanted to face plant in front of a complete stranger? Why even bother catching me in the first place, then?” you snap. In spite of the fact that he towers over you, the volleyball player has backed into the corner, trying to make himself disappear. _What the hell is his problem?_

“Put your mask on,” he glares, his voice firm and resonant in spite of his recoil. “You’re getting your germs all over the elevator.”

Your mouth opens wider, which only makes him more irate.

“This is an enclosed space,” he growls. Furiously, you fuss with the damned thing, ready to rip into him the minute it’s back over your face.

_Ding!_ Before you can blink, he’s out of the doors, throwing you a disgusted glare over his shoulder as he strides down the corridor. You watch the motion-activated lights click on with each stride, illuminating his path down the beige hallway like he’s some kind of celebrity. With the way your school reveres its athletes, he probably is. _Dickhead._ If you never see him again, it’ll be too soon.

~

_Why hasn’t he called?_

You flop onto your bed, feeling annoyed. It’s Tuesday, which means it has been four days since you hooked up with your friend-with-benefits, though after the way you rode him, you had hoped he might consider becoming more. You can take care of yourself—and have already done so twice today to stop yourself from quadruple texting him like a fool—but it’s the principle of it.

Your Saturday night had been going perfectly until the moment you bumped into Sakura. With no bars open anymore, you and Yari had turned from a casual flirtationship into friends with benefits, meeting up nearly every second night to get your insides rearranged. It probably wasn’t a wise idea to be going out and about when the number of cases was rising, but it was only ever the two of you at his place, what was the risk?

The phone rings and you snatch it up so quickly you feel embarrassed for yourself. When you see the unknown number, you clear your throat, putting on your most polite phone voice.

“Hai, this is Y/N. May I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Y/N-san. I am calling from Shinjuku Public Health Centre. We are in the process of contact tracing for a patient named Yari Chin; do you know of this man?” a flat voice on the line answers.

“Yes, I do,” you sit up, tucking your legs beneath you. Your forehead already feels tight from frowning.

“Yari-san hosted a ‘gathering’ at his home last week, and all six participants recently tested positive for the virus. You were amongst the people he came into contact with. Were you at the aforementioned gathering?”

“N-no,” you stammer, “I was with him alone.” You glance around the room, trying to understand why the walls are suddenly closing in.

“In what capacity?” her voice drones, prying into your personal life with all the tenderness of a rectal scan.

“U-um?” you twist your bedsheets into your fist, clutching so hard your knuckles stand out.

“How long were you with him for?” she sounds tetchy.

“A few hours,” you bleat, the small sound feels too loud in a room now the size of a shoebox, each wall compressing you in.

“Miss L/N, you are required to undergo a test at your closest medical clinic within the next 24 hours. Please limit your contact with all people, including your immediate family, before the test and whilst you await the results. You are a student at Keio, correct? Your university’s hospital has a localised Covid centre and will be taking over your case,” she barrels through without waiting for any response. “Please compile a list beforehand of everyone you have come into contact with since meeting Yari-san, in order to facilitate faster contact tracing. Should you test positive, they will instruct you on how to proceed. Thank you and good day,” you hear the phone click before you have even processed half of her words.

Like a walking ghost, you assemble the contents of your duffel bag, your mind reeling whilst your body functions on autopilot. You find yourself packing socks and underwear worth a whole month in case you cannot come back, wondering whether that tickle in your throat from earlier was dehydration or the first sign of the virus, clutching your forehead to hold back tears you have no reason to be crying, yet. Whilst you wait for the residence assistant to arrange the special Covid-related campus shuttle, you sit on the corner of your bed, typing through gasps and watery eyes as you trace your contacts back several days.

Everyone else has been keeping to themselves, so you have only spoken to your friends on video chat, and your suitemates have already moved home. But of course, you had to go against everyone’s advice and traipse off campus just to have some asshole screw you, one who couldn’t even be bothered to text— _unless he’s dying, oh man, please don’t let him be dying_. He deserves a lot of shit, but not that. What if you get even more sick? What if you make other people sick? Frantically, you type out the incredibly short list, your fingers jerking as you type the last name.

1\. Food delivery driver, < two seconds

2\. Maintenance person, in my room fixing aircon for 10 mins

3\. Sakura

_Shit._ The guy who nearly murdered you for breathing on him. It would be so much easier to let the hospital contact him, save yourself the mortification of telling him yourself. But that would make you no better than Yari.

You type a frantic text to the resident assistant, asking her for his contact details. The phone rings thrice before he picks up.

“Who is this?” his gruff tone makes your heart spasm, your resolve withering to a dry husk.

“Um, hi, Sakura-san. This is the girl from Saturday?” The silence on the phone is thick with disinterest. “The one who bumped into you in the elevator,” you peep, your voice as thin and fragile as a glass thermometer.

“Why do you have my number?” he clips.

“Um, I am so, so sorry, but you need to get tested for corona.”

If you thought his silence was deafening before, this one is enough to make your ear drums bleed.

“I-I came into contact with someone who tested positive, shortly before I bumped into you. I’m so sorry, I had no idea. They will officially contact you once I’m at the hospital, but I wanted you to hear it from me, because, well… Um, the RA has arranged a shuttle, it should be here in thirty minutes, so if you would like to be on the safe side, you can come with me to the hospital now and get tested anyway—hello?”

The call goes dead.

When you see him sitting at the back of the shuttle, he does not look or talk to you. Whilst you sit upon the cold, stiff hospital benches, a requisite two metres apart, he does not acknowledge your presence. When you are jointly addressed by the nurse and admin officer about waiting for your test results, he does not utter a word, merely nods.

It is only when you arrive at the stripped down lobby of the on-campus guest residences that have been cordoned off for quarantine, when the admin officer informs you that you will be required to remain here for a minimum of fourteen days, including any additional days pursuant to your test results, and when he directs you to the joined, two-bedroom, serviced apartment that you will not be allowed to leave thereafter, only then does Sakura deign to look at you. He gives you the filthiest, meanest glare you could ever possibly fathom. You don’t need to see the bottom half of his face to know that his disgust is visible on every inch of skin. You feel infinitesimally small, worse than a louse that scrabbles across the ground, more vile and disgusting than the decade-old gunk that rims a sewer pipe. When you burst into tears, it only makes his sneer deepen.

“Can’t we have single rooms, not in a suite?” you splutter to the admin officer, who stands three metres away from you in full protective gear. He regards the both of you like filthy creatures, fixing a firm stare as he answers.

“We have limited housing left, because of kids like you who put your own… entertainment above others’ wellbeing. There is no option to change rooms,” his voice is a gavel, a firm judgement. “Meals will be brought to you regularly, and you may order groceries, care of the reception, where they will be disinfected and brought up to you by one of our masked staff. The same goes for any clothing, toiletries, and… other hygiene products you may need,” he looks pointedly at you, making you want to flip your skin inside out and disappear from existence.

“A nurse will come by to administer a follow-up test every four days. You may not leave this apartment, or you will be expelled from university and heavily fined. Understood?”

Beside you, Sakura is engulfed in the thickest, blackest flame of fury. It radiates from his body, burning you, not like scorching flame, but like the coldest ice. Turning on his heel, he enters the apartment and strides towards the open bedroom on the right. Before you can even utter a word, he slams the door hard enough to rattle its hinges.

~

At 7pm you knock timidly on his door.

“Sakura, they’ve delivered some dinner. In case you’re hungry.” No response. You try again. “It’s bento: zakkokumai and nimono. It’s already getting a bit cold… It looks halfway decent, but I prefer cooking my own food. Maybe… maybe we can place an order for groceries together? I don’t mind cooking for us,” you trail off, straining to hear any sound from behind the smooth, wooden door.

“Sakura?” you give one last, feeble attempt, only to hear a grumble, a sigh and a string of muttered expletives in return.

“Uzai,” he grits. _Pain in the ass._

Message received, you slump and skulk through the living room, taking a seat at the square dining table beside the kitchenette. Your bedrooms are across from each other, with a bathroom beside his and a small study beside yours, equipped with a yoga mat. The kitchen, lounge and dining area fill the wide, rectangular space leading to the main door. The apartment is decent, certainly larger than your own dorm rooms, and you feel grateful to be there rather than the quarantined student residences on old campus, where the rooms are smaller and don’t come with aircon.

As you sit in the dining chair, one leg tucked against your chest while you pick at your meal, you eye the three empty chairs around you.

“You know, for someone named after cherry blossoms, there’s nothing particularly pleasant about you,” you grumble to the stale kitchen air as you take a sip from a can of peach tea.

“That’s because my name isn’t Sakura,” the wry voice behind you makes you shriek in surprise.

“Don’t scare me like that! Look, now I’ve spilt my tea all over the table,” you huff, stropping over to the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. You wipe the surface down vigorously until not a drop is left before giving a quick spritz of surface cleaner and a second wipe in case any of the sticky liquid is left behind. When you look up, you find him staring at you with a curious expression, though it is quickly replaced with contempt once again.

“I’m sorry,” you give an exasperated sigh, “for getting your name wrong, and invading your personal space, and making you sick.”

“And getting me stuck here for two weeks. With you,” he adds, his gaze acerbic over his mask.

You clench your teeth and take a deep breath, tactfully changing the subject.

“Why are you still wearing your mask indoors? We’re going to be stuck here for two weeks either way, so…” you trail off, giving a shrug before taking your seat at the table. “Maybe we should set some ground rules?” you gesture to the seat opposite. He remains standing.

“Don’t touch my things, don’t make noise, especially not during class hours,” he rattles off a short list. “I shower first; I want to be in and out before you get your germs everywhere. Got it?” he picks up the bento box and fishes utensils from the drawer, pointedly avoiding the ones you set out for him. You want to call him out for being the rudest person you have ever come across, but you hold your tongue—at the end of the day, you’re the entire reason why he’s here.

“Wait, you didn’t tell me what your name was,” you call, twisting around in your seat.

“Sakusa,” comes his clipped reply.

“Ah, so I wasn’t far off at least!” you attempt to sound cheery. “My name is—“

The door slams in your face once again.

**Day Two**

You keep to your room, avoiding him. You only hear him leave to collect food or shower. Still no text from Yari. You can’t stop daydreaming about his mouth on your body. _That fucker._

In the early evening, you hear the door to the study open and shut in quick succession. After some time, you hear a quiet grunt that makes your ears perk up. When you strain, you hear what sounds like sit-ups, then push-ups, then goodness knows what else. For over an hour, he goes at it, grunting and panting through the thin wall. When your mind starts to roam, remembering the feeling of his taut muscles pressed against you, you shove your earphones on and watch back-to-back episodes of Aggretsuko, waiting for your turn in the shower so you can hide your moans with running water.

**Day Three**

Your grocery order arrives. You cook a meal of zosui, making double the portion of the rice soup for your surly housemate, adding extra salmon and egg for protein. Sakusa exercises twice, in the morning and at night. You have nearly run out of episodes of Aggretsuko.

Yari posts a string of stories about his boredom in hospital; his symptoms are mild, yet he still can’t find the energy to text you back. You block his contact and take an extra long shower, drawing out your frustration through your fingertips.

**Day Four**

Sakusa leaves a stack of notes on the kitchen counter—his contribution to groceries. The thought of him enjoying your food makes you smile. Feeling bored and lonely, you consider knocking on his door to insist that if he eats your food, he has to eat it with you, at the dining table. The memory of his sneer makes you shrivel inside. You finish your meal and retreat to the safety of your room. The follow-up test is perfunctory; the nurse swabs you quickly and leaves without delay.

You while away the evening reading the latest chapters of your favourite fics, each one more salacious than the first. Your restless mind and desperate body are driving you to distraction, not helped in the least bit by the increasing decibels of the grunts from the study. Sakusa’s order of free weights and resistance bands arrived earlier in the day, and he has wasted no time unboxing them and revving up his workouts. It seems you aren’t the only one going stir crazy.

After you hear him leave the shower, you can barely wait to get into the privacy of the bathroom. It feels too risky to touch yourself in your bedroom; without any music playing, you feel paranoid that he might hear across the corridor, yet with music, you feel certain he will bang on your door and tell you to keep it down. So you wait patiently until you can slip under the sound of running water, cresting waves of pleasure over and over, as many times as you need to. Plus, the sensation of your brain floating into the steam above you and your legs buckling beneath you makes your orgasms so much better. Every night you leave the shower feeling sated and renewed, your skin scrubbed clean and a little raw from the scorching water.

Tonight, you take your time after the shower, putting on a mud mask and reading through fluff fics whilst it dries (there is no need to read smut and get yourself riled up again), and following it up with elixir, serum, moisturiser and finally, your favourite night time oil. By the time you are through, your skin glows all over your body. With your towel wrapped around you and your hair pulled back from your face by a fluffy headband, you exit the bathroom in the highest of moods.

You smack into a bare chest. Sakusa is on his way out of the study, wearing nothing but a pair of long, dark-green pyjama bottoms and checkered house slippers. Between his rippling abs and his startlingly handsome, unmasked face scowling down at you, you don’t know where to look.

“Uzai,” he huffs. You aren’t sure if he’s insulting you or greeting you.

“Sorry!”you yelp.

“What, are you trying to make your own sauna in there?” he winces as clouds of water vapour waft from the open door behind you. “This isn’t a damn holiday resort,” he snips.

“Sorry,” you bleat, though you don’t know what you’re sorry for. “I just like piping hot showers, I don’t feel clean unless it’s hot enough to take my skin off,” you make a feeble attempt at a joke, trying to sidestep the towering figure blocking your way.

“I didn’t think being clean was a priority for you, germ,” he gives a wry barb.

“Excuse me?” you blink up at him. “Are you implying I’m dirty?”

“Considering how much of your stuff you leave lying around, I would say it’s an observation, not an implication,” he answers cooly, his mouth twisting slowly into a sneer. It looks even more frightening without his mask on, though you can’t seem to take your eyes off of his disarmingly handsome face. You cross and promptly uncross your arms over your chest when his gaze flicks down to where your breasts are pushed up, peeking above the top of your towel.

“I may be messy, but I’m not dirty,” you snap. “I wipe down every surface, and I clean more often than you, actually. If we’re going to talk about dirty, how about we address the fact that you shed like a wolf and you never wipe down the bathroom sink after you use it? Half my time in there is spent wiping away all your hair, you caveman.”

He looks taken aback; you might be the first person who has ever called him dirty. You find your eyes fixated upon the light peppering of hair that runs between his pecs, and force yourself to look away.

“If you make sure I don’t have to deal with any more of your wavy strands, then I won’t leave my stuff lying about,” you lift your chin into the air, mostly to avoid looking at the smattering of hair that you noticed above the waistband of his trousers. “And why the hell are you shirtless?” you snap, more annoyed at yourself than anyone else. “This is a shared space,” you mock the pejorative tone he threw at you in the elevator.

“You’re one to talk,” he glares at the towel you forgot you were wearing.

“I-it’s too humid in the bathroom for my pyjamas… and you’re normally not awake right now. Why are you prancing about in the study this late, anyway? Don’t you have some precious schedule to stick to, princess?” you scoff, trying not to sound as flustered as you are.

“I came into the study because you were being too loud today,” he answers, his face flat and bored.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t even playing music. What, is the shower water too loud for you now, your majesty?”

“No, but your moaning was,” he answers.

“I—you—”

“Doke,” he pushes past you, clipping your shoulder. _Get outta my way._

Sakusa slams his door in your face. Again.

**Day Five**

You do not want to leave your room.

Every time you think of last night, you crawl right back under the covers. Sakusa has heard you moaning every single night. He can hear you through the wall. So, not only are you an absolute dork and a pain in his arse, you are also a pervert because no matter how hard you try, you cannot ignore the fact that it turns you on.

The rumble of your stomach and the alluring call of coffee force you from your room. Pressing your ear to the door, you listen for any sign of movement. Once you hear the click of the study, you brace yourself, waiting for the first groan as he stretches. As soon as he does, you dart out to the kitchen, hurriedly whipping together some toast and strawberry jam, and boiling water for coffee.

“Can you make me a cup?”

“Ack!” garbled curses force their way out of your lips. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I should put a bell on you, you’re like a fucking cat,” you yammer, furiously wiping down the goop that splattered from your knife onto the counter and your shirt. Without thinking, you lift the shirt to your mouth, raising the hem as you lick flecks of jam from it. Sakusa’s eyes flick to the curves of your exposed torso, before looking away, bored as ever.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he sighs, walking back to the study with his water bottle half filled.

You stand at the kitchen counter for several minutes, munching absently on your breakfast, replaying his nonchalant encounter. He seems entirely unfazed by anything you do, least of all the moaning, which should be a relief, yet somehow only makes you more annoyed. It bothers you to no end that whilst you are constantly a dithering mess around him, he never seems to give you any reaction other than boredom and disgust.

“How’s it going with the coffee?” his voice makes you startle, though less so than before.

“How’s it going with your big ass forehead?” you snap automatically, fetching your coffee mug from the counter. Sakusa’s thick eyebrow twitches as he regards you with a look of mild amusement. _Well, at least that’s something,_ you grumble to yourself as you stomp back to your room.

Sakusa’s workout is particularly long and hard tonight, with grunts and groans so strong and rhythmic that you’re nearly foaming at the mouth. Even with headphones on, you can still hear him pounding into your brain. After an hour, with no signs of stopping, you storm out of your room. You find Sakusa upside down in the doorway, hanging by his knees from a pull-up bar as he folds his whole body in half. All thoughts leave your head when you see his shirtless torso, every muscle glistening with sweat, dripping onto the towel beneath him. His whole body ripples as he pulls his head up towards his knees. As he comes down, your eyes are drawn to the jostle at his crotch, bringing a curiosity so overpowering you nearly groan aloud.

“What?” Sakusa snaps you back to decency.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” you snap without thinking. Your eyes fly as wide as saucers, your hands clamp over your mouth, Sakusa stares at you upside down, his eyebrows pulling him to the floor.

“What?” he draws the word out like a sword from its sheath. Every hair on your body bristles under his threatening gaze.

“I am so sorry, I genuinely meant to say ‘can you keep it down’, I just—I got,” you pause to draw oxygen through your alarmingly tight throat. “You’re distracting me,” you wince.

“You have a filthy mouth, warugaki,” Sakusa smirks, resuming his sit ups, grunting just as loud as before. You blush furiously, your cheeks feeling hot and tight beneath your skin. No one has ever called you a brat before.

“I am a distraction to you?” he keeps you rooted as he reaches up to palm the bar, his long fingers wrapping around it with as much possessiveness as if it was his own pipe. When he pulls his legs down, you watch the undulating muscles as his spine unfurls.

“Wet?” you murmur. “—What?” you shake your head.

“Am I a distraction to you?” he asks nonchalantly, swiping the back of his hand across his sweat-soaked forehead.

“Y-yes,” you mutter hoarsely.

“Good. So are you,” he thwacks his hand in the air, splashing you with thick droplets of his sweat. Your face is splattered, some of it goes in your mouth, and before you can even begin to process your shock, he clips, “now get out, I have to finish my workout.”

You walk back to your room in a daze, with the taste of salty sweat upon your tongue.

**Day 6**

With no classes today, you had stayed awake until the early morning, crawling through seasons of your favourite show in spite of how tired you were. Every time you closed your eyes, he was on your mind: what was he doing, what was he thinking, what did he _mean_? You couldn’t get to sleep even if you tried.

After finally passing out and sleeping through the whole day, you wake up when it’s dark, feeling disoriented and groggy. Your dreams were filled with naked bodies cresting over waves, and you find the telltale signs of your arousal swishing between your folds.

_Ugh, why?_ you groan at the ceiling, before slipping your hand between your legs. You bite down on the corner of your pillow as you circle your clit to completion, but the effort of stopping each moan in your throat leaves you feeling unsatisfied. You groan again before rolling over and undressing for the shower.

The corridor is dark when you emerge in your towel; Sakusa must have gone to sleep ages ago. In the shower, you can still feel the need within your cunt, and you bite your lip wondering whether to indulge yourself. _Screw it._ You brace one hand against the glass shower-front, letting the water run over your back as your head falls forwards. Each soft moan brings a gust of steam against the still-warming glass as you build to an orgasm, as slowly and quietly as you can. Knowing that Sakusa is asleep makes you feel less guilty, but you still have to be quiet.

_Unnnnnhhhh,_ you change position, leaning against the ledge of the frosted window, letting the breeze that slips through raise goosebumps on your arms. You cast your mind to the faces and scenes of your favourite smut, unable to focus on a single one. Every thought leads you back to Sakusa, that infuriating man. Would it be messed up to think about him when he’s right next door? You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate when you know full well what you’re about to do. You close your eyes, slipping two fingers around your clit, down to your opening, where you swirl them around like water down a drain, before plunging them into your depths.

_Mmmmmmhhh, Sakusa._

“What are you doing!”

“Fucking hell, Sakusa!”

You implode and explode all at once. Sakusa stands in the open doorway, headphones jammed over his ears, staring slack jawed at your naked body. You slam your thighs together, bringing your free hand over your chest. The little modesty over your covered mound is undermined by the fact that two of your fingers are still buried inside you.

“What the fuck, you pervert?” you screech.

“What are you doing in the shower, bakayaro?” he rips off his headphones.

“I’m showering! What are you doing awake?” you wail.

“It’s only eight pm!” he thunders. “I told you I have to shower first!”

It occurs to you too late that you’re still standing there yelling at him, stark naked. Somehow it feels indecent to remove your fingers from your tightly clenched cunt in front of him.

“Get out, for fuck’s sake!”

Sakusa beats a hasty retreat, looking as bewildered as you feel.

“Close the fucking door!” you yowl, and when he reappears you nearly choke on water vapour alone. Did you really see what you think you just saw? Right before he swung the door shut, Sakusa Kiyoomi had a raging boner pressed up against his shorts.

**Day 7**

You can’t stop thinking about it. You have to, but you can’t. You gave Sakusa a hard-on. You would feel chuffed if you weren’t so mortified.

You don’t ever want to see him again.

_But you also want to fuck him so badly it hurts._

Now, the question is, did he get a boner because he wants to fuck you, or because he wants to fuck, period?

You tap your finger against your nose before the answer dawns on you.

_Does it matter?_

You don’t have to like someone to sleep with them, right? You can still hate someone and make them cum so hard they black out, right? You flip open your laptop and look up the best hate-sex smut you can find. One hour and a whole lot of squirming later, you feel ready to put your plan into action.

You lay out a skimpy lounging-around outfit: a pair of tiny shorts, an open-zip hoodie and your favourite bralette. But before that, you decide to take a long, morning shower. Once you step into the water, you nearly lose all resolve. You start off hesitantly, testing your confidence with low moans. As you picture him lying in his bed on the other side of the wall, stroking what appears to be a considerable length beneath his boxers, your inhibitions slip away like soap suds.

_Unnnnnnh_ , you let your voice fill the room, glistening with the mist as it catches the light. _Fuckkkkkk_ , you groan, pressing one hand to the wall to steady your quivering thighs. _Sakusa,_ you think, moaning louder than you’ve allowed yourself before, and _damn_ , it feels good.

You give it another minute or so, slowing down to grope your breast, scratch your thigh, run your hand over your ass and give it a firm squeeze, before you finally feel ready to moan his name.

“Sa—”

The door swings open. _Yes!_

“Can you shut up? I’m on a conference call and my teammates heard you, bakayaro,” he snaps before slamming the door shut, leaving you stunned.

Furious, you slam the water off in time to hear a muffled, “Sorry about that, my housemate really sucks.”

_You bitch._

That’s the second time he’s barged into the bathroom whilst you were naked. Third time has to be the charm. You want him to storm in there and fuck you against the shower wall, take out all his frustration on your body.

“Sakusa,” you cry, conference call be damned. “Mmmmm, fuck,” you sigh, jilling yourself so hard and fast that the sound of your palm hitting your thigh bounces off the walls. You hear his door wrenched open and your heart rate jumps, your chest fluttering as you rub your clit even faster. Sakusa storms through the door, and rips the shower door open in a fluid, furious motion that ends with his palm around your throat. He presses you against the wall, the shower drenching his clothes, and you feel like you’ve ascended to heaven; it’s too good to be true.

“Warugaki,” his tongue scrapes the word like a claw. “When I ask you to do something, you do it,” he hisses.

You crane your neck up at him, your chest heaving, your body clamouring for him.

“Please,” you pant the only words you can muster. “Please fuck me, I can’t take it anymore.”

Sakusa presses his body against yours, towering over you, sliding a hand down your side, between your legs, over your drenched lips. You gasp when he enters you without warning, a single digit pressing in to feel how wet you are, an entirely different sensation to the water cascading over you. Sakusa withdraws his finger and brings it to his mouth. Without thinking, you open yours at the same time, your tongue running over your lips as you watch him suck your juice from his finger. He scrunches up his mouth and spits, a glob of your slick and his saliva sliding down your breast and stomach before it’s washed away by the water. You moan, feeling angry and revolted and so wildly aroused you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Filthy,” is all he says, scrutinising every inch of your face.

“Make me clean,” you gasp, bucking your hips against him. His expression falters, darkening so alarmingly that you fear you have offended him.

“I can’t,” he grits.

“Why not?” your brows knit together.

“I—” he sounds choked. Your lust-heavy haze clears and you take his face in your hands only for him to shake angrily out of your grip.

“What is it? You can tell me,” you speak softly, as though to a wounded animal.

“I’m not clean,” he shakes his head.

“You have a—”

“I haven’t waxed.”

“Oh. Really. Is that it?” you release the tension in your shoulders, rolling your eyes at his astonishing drama. You lean past him to shut the water off. “I can wax you, Sakusa,” you look up at him, trying to mask how badly you want to rip the hair from his body.

He stands there for what feels like ages, thinking. Occasionally, he shoots you a spiteful glare. You really want to finish showering, get dry and get on with your day, but it’s a bit hard to with his hand still around your neck. It’s only a minute later (though it feels like a year) when he answers.

“Fine. You wax me and in return I will sleep with you. Once. I shouldn’t even be doing you that favour, considering how much you owe me for getting me into this mess,” he huffs.

You should feel annoyed, but the prospect of tearing hair from his body before he tears you in half makes you far too excited to care.

~

It takes a few hours for the delivery driver to arrive, but decidedly longer for reception to accept, decontaminate and send up the package. In the early evening, Sakusa knocks on your door to summon you. He has removed all his bedding and placed a towel down, with the necessary utensils laid out neatly on the adjacent desk. You don a pair of gloves with a self-satisfied smack and begin churning the sugar wax on the wooden spatula.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, eyeing you warily.

“For myself, yes, but never for anyone else.” Tactfully, you refrain from telling him how you cannot wait to see him cry in pain. Spreading the clear, golden wax over the hairs on his chest, you take a cloth strip and smooth it over the wax.

“Are you ready?” you feign concern, and without waiting for a response, you rip the strip off with glee. Sakusa doesn’t flinch. Disappointed—and admittedly, a little impressed—you quickly press and rip the few flecks of wax remaining before moving onto the next part of his body.

When he lifts his armpit, you catch his fresh and bright scent, citrus, bergamot and a prickle of sweat, a smell that shoots straight to your crotch. You shift and cough before applying the next dollop of wax. Not once does he flinch, no matter how vicious you are with the waxing strips. Admittedly, with sugar wax, there is a limit to how vicious you can actually be. In contrast to his thick, black locks, his body hair is sparse and fine; he’s no stranger to waxing. By the time you finish with his legs, underarms and chest, you feel drained. After a quick snack break, you return, your jittery anticipation giving you a renewed burst of energy.

When he tucks his thumb beneath the hem of his boxers, you hesitate.

“What? I’ve already seen you naked, so what’s the problem?” he looks at you, unimpressed as per usual.

You sigh and brace yourself, but you’re still not prepared for your body’s visceral reaction when he unsheathes his cock. You know he’s a tall man, but you didn’t know he had one. Hanging limp between his legs, his cock is still larger than Yari’s fully erect. You can’t help it when a moan forces itself from your lips, and your attempt to mask it in a cough only makes you splutter and choke for real.

“Grow up,” he sighs, though you don’t miss the faint blush dusting his cheeks. After a sip of water, you are ready to continue. You are more delicate this time, making precise strokes of the paddle as you catch all the hair in the wax. You are astonished by the softness of his crotch, the tender skin and the plush pads of flesh, things you never paid much attention to on a man before. His veins look dormant, like sleeping volcanic fissures beneath the smooth, pink-purple surface of a mountain. With no foreskin sheathing him, you take in the prominent lip and the full, peachy softness of his head.

“May I?” you ask politely, clinically, waiting for his nod before you shift his shaft to the side. The hair growing around the base feels too close for comfort.

“Should I leave this bit?”

“Why?” he raises himself onto his elbows, staring at you through half lids.

“Won’t it hurt?” you ask.

“Just do it,” his lip curls as he sinks back onto his back, texting languidly. “My teammate says hello,” he turns his phone towards you, showing you the snap he has taken of you bent over his cock, your face cut out of frame as you carefully apply wax. A stream of howling messages follow it.

“Are you serious? Ask first, dude!” you yank the strip off in annoyance, making him hiss, his cock twitching in your palm.

“Keep that up and I’ll return the favour,” he glares.

“I can handle pain,” you smirk, though the thought of him biting and spanking you is far too distracting with his meaty cocky in your palm. Waxing his balls is far trickier than you expected. There are so many folds, so many. His skin is soft and squishy, and you have to resist the urge to giggle every time you prod a place on his scrotum and the skin around it starts shifting like waves, all on its own. Balls are fascinating things, and especially tender, as you find out when you catch a stray bundle of hairs from a different section when you pull.

“Kuso,” he sieves the swearword through his gritted teeth, his body folding as he clenches his ridiculously defined abs. “Bakayaro! Be careful!”

The most shit-eating grin spreads across your face. You are utterly delighted. Of course, you aren’t _entirely_ evil, so you won’t do it again, for now. But you can’t wait to make him cry out like that when he’s pounding into you.

You clear your throat and quickly finish his front side. His backside proves to be far more challenging to keep your thoughts straight. Before you can ask what he would prefer, he flips over onto all fours. An image of pulling his hair back with your fist whilst you milk him from behind invades your vision. It takes all your effort to stomp it out and think clean thoughts.

“All done!” you practically screech.

Sakusa sits up, taking in your work with a curt, satisfactory nod.

“Your turn,” he sits up.

“Excuse me?”

~

To say the man is precise would be an understatement. Meticulous would work. Exacting, methodical, perfectionist, neat freak. Not an ounce of hair remains on your body. He waxed your fingers and toes. He even waxed your nipples, a sensation that made you clamp your hands over your mouth so as not to embarrass yourself. Your legs and arms were not a fuss, but every strip on your sensitive skin that makes you wince and whine only draws a look of derision.

“Have you done this to someone before?” you chirp as he spreads your labia with absolute professionalism, his expression even colder than his slender fingers upon your skin.

“Yes,” his answer is perfunctory, but it only stokes your curiosity. You lay on your back gazing up at him, your legs spread in a butterfly as he methodically plies and pulls, and the idea of sleeping with him seems so distant. That is, until his fingers pawed the sensitive skin surrounding your entrance, and you buck your hips involuntarily. 

“Stay still,” he grunts, spreading wax on the inner swell of your outer lip, his brow knotted in concentration. When he pulls your other lip away with his thumb, you wriggle in spite of yourself, bringing your leg up sharply.

“I told you to stay still,” he growls, shifting onto the bed to straddle your thigh and keep you pinned down. Having his body hanging over you only makes it harder to stay focused, and your eyes roam from his raven curls to the strikingly beautiful moles above his brow. You smile to yourself; they look like a colon, punctuating all the thoughts in his mind. He catches you smiling and you turn it to a scowl, dropping your eyes to the knotted tree branches that are his thighs. As thoughts invade of grinding your clit against them like a pestle to his muscular mortar, you forget that he can see how turned on you are until he swipes up your lips with a cloth, making you jerk.

“I can’t wax you properly if you’re leaking everywhere. Try to control yourself, germ,” he grunts.

“Stop calling me a fucking germ, you asshat!— _nnnnnaaaaah!_ Fuck! Sakusa! Be gentle,” you gasp.

“I thought you said you can handle pain. Roll over,” he grabs your hip and pushes you onto your side, exposing your ass to him. With one hand, he spreads your cheek and with the other, paddles wax onto your skin.

“Control yourself,” he clips.

“Stop te— _mmmmmfffff!_ ” you gasp as tingles of pain course over your skin. You’ve always found the sensation weirdly enjoyable, but you’ve never had the added strain of wanting the fuck the person doing it to you.

After a few quick pulls, you’re finished, and nearly vibrating in anticipation. You follow him into the bathroom, almost drooling at the sight of him pulling down his boxers again.

Sakusa steps inside first, lathering his body with soap to remove the last vestiges of wax. You now stand outside the shower, slack jawed, as you watch the shimmering bubbles coat his skin. When you reach out a hand to open the door, he levels a glare that stops you in your tracks.

“Wait your turn, brat.”

Unable to make his hand budge, you wait. When you switch places, he towels himself dry before leaning against the counter comfortably. You look up at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his razor sharp gaze. He softens his face.

“I like to watch,” his lip curls.

So you put on a show, lathering every limb before scrubbing with your nylon wash cloth. You have a separate, gentle wash for your labia, which you squeeze into your palm and turn away from him as you lather it between your folds with your bare fingers.

“Show me,” comes his command. You turn slowly, your breath catching in your throat when you see the filthy look on his face.

“Touch yourself,” his voice is low, gravelly.

You spread your legs wider, rinsing off the last suds before you begin to run your middle finger around your sensitive bud. As you move faster, the sensation begins to sting a little, your delicate skin still sensitive from the waxing. You plunge a finger into you, drawing more slick to coat your skin, moving out of the water stream so you can focus. Sakusa watches you all the while, languidly stroking his growing erection.

Fixated on his full, meaty member, you stroke the inside of your walls with rising pressure, imagining how good it will feel when he fills you, rams into you, bottoms you out—that is, if he’ll even fit. It’s not his girth you’re worried about, though it is respectable. The man is long, dangerously long, and even with his gigantic hands, his nimble wrist is still working considerably to spread his precum over his shaft.

He looks divine, leaning against the counter like a marble sculpture, coils of Adonis upon his head, dark and forbidding eyes as cryptic as the great Hideyoshi himself, and firm muscle built from years of exertion, casting shadows in deep ridges where the overhead lights cannot reach. He’s breathtaking. If only he weren’t so exasperating.

You stroke yourself faster, harder, bracing yourself against your cool glass cage, desperate to be freed. Sakusa’s watchful eyes see your intentions the second before you move. With a slam, he fixes his hand over the partition, keeping the door tightly shut, no matter how hard you push.

“Sakusa,” you whine, absolutely outraged.

“Stay right there, germ,” he grins only with his eyes, his mouth twisting as he bites into his lip, pleasure racking his body. So close yet so unbearably far, you press your body desperately against the glass. With your arm wedged in between, your strokes and rubs become more erratic as you fervently chase your release. Each gasping breath presses your breasts, your thighs, your chin, your lips to the glass as you undulate in open-mouthed ecstasy. Through the steam, you never take your eyes off Sakusa, watching how deliciously his muscles strain and contract, wanting to touch him, lick him, scratch him, make him cry your name out loud.

“Fuck,” you groan, dragging your chin up the glass.

Sakusa shudders, even closer than you are, and you want nothing more than to see his face contort in pleasure, to see something other than a sneer paint his striking features.

“Are you gonna cum?” you pant. “You think your hand is any match for my pussy? Are you really gonna cum standing out there when you could be in here fucking me? I wanna ruin you, Sakusa, I wanna make you fucking filthy,” you groan, rising to your tip toes as your body strains against the partition. Close, he’s so close. “Where are you gonna put all that cum, huh? Are you gonna make a mess everywhere? You know you want to cum inside me, so open the fucking door, you piece of shit,” you growl.

Sakusa’s expression is wild, evil, and you know you’ve crossed a line. With a few sharp, tight pumps, he cums, spurting white reams all over the glass and floor. You pause, taking in the sight with a mix of arousal and revulsion, but have no time to bring yourself to climax before he yanks open the door and you nearly fall forward.

“Yes, _fuck,_ finish me off,” you grope at his chest. Sakusa takes a broad, cum-covered palm and fists your hair, pulling you off him so sharply that you mewl.

“You have such a disgusting mouth, germ,” he smiles like an alligator, all teeth, no mercy. “Might as well put it to good use.”

You yelp as he brings your face to the glass, giving you a close look at his cum trickling down it like some depraved Pollock painting.

“Clean up my cum,” he commands. “Lick it.”

When you struggle against his grip, he presses his body against yours, his arm in a vice on your hip, his softening cock flushed against your ass.

“Clean it. With your tongue,” his voice is like an iron chain, binding you, holding you down. But you can’t, it’s too repulsive to even consider. Sensing your stubbornness, Sakusa shifts his hand, sliding it over your mound and finding your swollen bundle of nerves more than ready for his torture. You buck your hips and moan, nearly losing all strength in your legs. Just when you feel the promise of your climax, he stops, gripping your hair harder.

“You want to cum? Lick it, warugaki,” his words drip with menace.

“Please,” you struggle, which earns a sharp tug of your hair. “Sakusa, no,” you sob.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, germ? To be filthy? Do it. Show me how dirty you are.”

You clench your thighs together, all your resolve breaking under the crushing weight of your desire. When you part your lips and press the tip of your tongue to the glass, Sakusa nudges you forward so your entire mouth gets a taste. You can’t even protest, for he plunges his fingers into you, making you moan even wider. It doesn’t take much for you to cum, his fingers pumping inside you and his palm crushing your clit as you writhe in his arms.

Once you fall still, feeling humiliated, you try to wipe the gunk off your face, but he catches your hand before bending his head to give you a full, messy, all-consuming kiss, his tongue decimating your mouth.

“Get back in the shower and wash off, I’ll clean up in here after,” his voice is jarringly soft. “I’ll order us some dinner.” Sakusa plants one more kiss before he strides out, ass bare, leaving you blinking in the bathroom wondering what just happened.

~

“I’m never sleeping with you again!” you huff.

“We never slept together in the first place,” he deadpans, scooping a generously loaded savoury pancake onto your plate: okonomiyaki, the ultimate comfort food.

“Well, I’m not gonna do it!” you stab the pancake with your spoon, making the bonito flakes sauté into the air.

“Yes, you will,” his tone is non-negotiable. “You owe me.”

“Do I look? Like I give a fuck?”

Sakusa slams his spoon down, wrenching your chair closer so he can lean over you, crowding your space with his presence. “Listen, you little brat, I’ve been stuck in here for a week listening to you sex yourself every day, watching you prance around half naked, smelling you everywhere I go in this damn apartment. I didn’t go to all that effort of waxing you just so you could decide to wimp out like a loser. What? Are your feelings hurt because I made you taste my cum? You poor thing. You’re _lucky_ you got quarantined with me, because I know how insatiable you are, and I never finish anything until I’m satisfied. We’ve got a whole week left, germ, and maybe I’ll keep fucking you even longer to make up for all this trouble you’ve caused me. So shut up, pick up your spoon and fill that filthy mouth of yours with food before I fill it for you.”

You stare at him in a stunned silence.

Sakusa leans back in his seat. “Can’t have you passing out on your blood test tomorrow.”

“Blood test?” you parrot.

“I requested blood tests for the both of us when they take our swabs. I need proof that you’re clean; I don’t like using a condom. So eat,” he commands. You chew on autopilot, wondering what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into.

**Day 8**

You can barely think straight. Your jittery nerves make the day pass by at a snail’s pace and at breakneck speed, all at once. You barely register the early morning test, the fully-suited nurse taking your swabs and drawing blood from your inner elbow. Sakusa saunters around you, entirely unbothered, all but ignoring you unless you address him directly.

**Day 9**

When you creak your eyes open, you sigh. All the nervous anticipation from yesterday has fizzled to nothing, for you have no idea how long the test will take. You crawl through your online classes, keeping largely to your room, and only in the late afternoon do you decide to get out of your pyjamas and reenter the land of the living.

Your shower is the perfect temperature, with all the hot water in the geyser to yourself. It washes over you, unlocking the tension in your muscles. The memory of two days ago makes you feel heated, so you turn away from the glass.

Your ears perk up when you hear the door open, feel the sudden draught ripple over your skin. The cool air is replaced by a warm body that presses against you from behind.

You moan at the mere touch of his fingertips gliding down your arms, your nipples pebbling as bumps of pleasure bloom across your skin like a meadow. Sakusa’s broad hands slide over your breasts, grasping them and squeezing them, pulling you against his chest.

“The test results just came in.”

You say nothing, though your breaths come in deeper and faster.

“You’re clean,” he smirks, sounding a touch too surprised. You whirl on him, ready to hit him with your sharpest insult, but he holds your hips instead.

“Why do you have bruises on your thigh, by the way?” he murmurs.

“That’s from where you dropped me, you asshole,” you scowl.

“I’ll try not to drop you this time,” he grins, lifting you upwards. With your back pressed against the cool tile, you expect to wrap your legs around his waist, but he keeps lifting you higher, hooking his shoulders beneath your thighs. Your head bumps the ceiling, and you yelp.

“Ow! Watch it!” you snip.

Sakusa unleashes his retort between your legs, lashing your clit with the tip of his tongue, lapping you up like he’s collecting a debt. You feel dizzy, both from the height and the sensation of his tongue exploring your folds.

His palms and fingers grip your thighs, spreading you wider for him, pressing so hard against your skin that he might leave a new round of bruises. You moan, carding your fingers through his soft, silky waves. It looks like a picture: his face buried between your glistening thighs, the water bouncing off his muscular shoulders, the steam shimmering beneath the warm bathroom lights. Your eyes slide shut, preserving the memory, your moan travelling down your body freely, no longer held back.

Your legs start to twitch as he sucks your clit, your body shudders when the tip of his tongue flicks you mercilessly. Never before has it felt so good to let your frustrations out, and you both seek revenge upon each others bodies: hair pulling, skin scratching, fingers bruising, clit nipping, making you squeal.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck,” your words blur into one, broken only by short, sharp gasps.

“Filthy little girl,” he growls between your folds, lifting you impossibly higher so that his tongue can reach the tight opening of your ass. You whine at the novel sensation, and start to giggle at the absurdity of the scene. If you were to tell anyone this happened, they wouldn’t believe you.

“This is insa— _uuunnnnhhhh!_ ” your words rise three octaves when the tip of his thumb pops straight into your asshole. Even with his spit, the abrasive feeling of the water on his fingers makes you cry out in discomfort and ecstasy. You cum with your hands pressed flat against the ceiling, but before you come down from your high, he drops you, making you shriek for the split second it takes for his arms to encircle your waist. Bending his thighs, he braces you against the wall, releasing one hand to pump his shaft and line it up to your throbbing opening.

“Wait, I need a second,” you gasp, pressing your hands against his chest.

“Too bad,” he grunts, thrusting his tip into you. Your head lolls backwards, your body arching towards him as his hand gropes your ass like he’s trying to pop it. With a few rolling thrusts, he pushes deeper until you can feel his tip graze your cervix. You gaze down in alarm at how much of his shaft is still left.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you mewl.

“It’ll fit,” he grunts.

“I’m not a fucking suitcase!’ your whine turns to a guttural moan as he thrusts in once more. The cocky bastard looks down at the three fingers-width of shaft that won’t go in, grinning like an absolute savage before he holds your hips against the wall and starts pounding into you. You cry out his name over and over, feeling delirious, your vision going white.

“Ugh,” Sakusa rolls his eyes, stopping you halfway down his dick. “I can’t feel anything with this water everywhere.” He wraps your legs around his waist and exits the bathroom, pulling a towel with him as he goes. You suck on his neck, tasting the sparkling lemon soda that is his skin, thrusting your hips to keep the pressure building. Sakusa pulls out of you and plonks you on your feet in front of him, rubbing you down with a towel, as though it’s his greatest inconvenience. When both of you are dried, and he has run a gentle pass over his dick with the towel, he casts it to the side and sinks to his knees. He spits onto his fingers and lathers your folds, your clit, your hole, before plunging his fingers inside and latching his mouth over you. When your second orgasm bursts upon his fingers, he mutters to himself.

“There we go. My turn,” he looks up at you with darkness in his eyes, and you just know you’re in trouble.

_So this is why volleyball players have such strong thighs?_ you think to yourself as you prop yourself up on one hand, your legs scissored with his as you grind each other on the floor. The slow, circular motion makes every inch of your silken walls stroke his shaft, and from the way his head lolls backward as he props himself up, the feeling must be phenomenal. Your thighs start to quiver from the strain and he throws you a pitiful look.

“What? I’m not used to gymnastics when I fuck,” you blow out air.

“You’ll get used to it,” he promises before flipping you over. With your knees on the yoga mat and your ass pressed against his lap, Sakusa kneels upright and lines his tip to your hole. When he enters you again, he presses your back down until your face is flush against the mat. You taste the vestiges of his sweaty workout as drool escapes from the corner of your mouth. Sakusa’s strokes become faster, hitting you in just the right spot and you groan endlessly. From his own grunts and pants, he’s enjoying it just as much as you are. He’s certainly captivated by your puckering hole, still fluttering from the memory of his thumb. Sakusa spits onto your asshole and swirls his finger around before dipping it in, making you arch even deeper.

“I’m getting close,” he moans. “Where’s that dirty talk from yesterday, huh?” he goads you, but you’re too blissed out on the mat to respond with anything other than _‘fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck’_.

“My filthy little princess,” he pants. “Nasty little germ, trapping me in this house, thinking you can corrupt me, hmm?” Sakusa falls forward, pressing his mouth to your ear and his chest against your back as he whispers, “I bet you never thought I would be dirtier than you, did you, brat?” His curls tickle your nose and you whine, jerking your hips to meet his thrusts.

“Need to cum,” you moan into the floor, the sound filling the whole room.

“Say you’re sorry first,” he grasps your neck and pulls you upright with him, tightening his thumb and fingers on your pulse points, making you feel like you might collapse from overstimulation in every direction.

“Say you’re sorry for everything. Say you don’t deserve to feel this good,” he grits, snapping his hips into you, his balls hitting you from behind. “Beg me to cum inside you, to make you clean.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, thinking about how much you hated the man, how bad he made you feel for what you did, how thoroughly he’s tearing you apart.

“I’m not sorry!” you cry. “I’d do it—ah! Do it all over again—mmmmh—-just to fuck you like this—“ you’re cut off by an orgasm bursting through you, wrenching the words from your mouth. As you clamp around his cock, Sakusa shudders and groans, giving you quicker, shallower thrusts, his cock head overstimulating your entrance, forcing its way in and out of your tight ring of muscles. In one swift movement, you turn around and force him deeper onto his knees, straddling him, flinging your arms around his neck as you ride him. Your mouth latches onto the pale satin of his neck, licking, sucking, biting with abandon, leaving a trail of scorched earth in your path. When your face nestles into the soft skin above his clavicle you suck with a vengeance, trying to break the skin while your nails tear into his shoulders.

“Ow! Y/N!” he cries, bracing his arm beside him so he can snap his hips up into yours.

“You look filthy,” you grin, pushing his hair back from his forehead, your face twisted in evil glee.

“Fuck!” he yells before he explodes inside you, his cock pumping white, hot cum into you like a canon. He pulls you down on top of him, and you lay panting over him, every twitch of his cock igniting an aftershock of pleasure.

“So _that’s_ what it takes to make you swear?” you chuckle lazily.

~

A short time later, you sit on the small couch together, waiting for your dinner to arrive as you flick through movie choices.

“I still don’t like you,” you kick his thigh playfully, burying your hands and face under the hoodie he loaned you after your shower. Sakusa’s fingers wrap around your ankle, pulling you further down the couch so he can lean over you, eclipse your body with his.

“I know,” he smirks. “I think that’s what turns me on.”

Before he can silence your snark with a kiss, a knock at the door startles you. Sakusa strides to the door, pressing his ear against it, as per protocol.

“Yes?” he calls.

“Good evening, sir. We have had a few noise complaints from your neighbours who have heard you, erm, arguing. They have asked politely if you could keep the shouting to a minimum, please?”

Sakusa looks over at you, and for the first time all week bursts into a genuine laugh.

“Sir?” the voice outside sounds confused. “Will you keep the noise down?”

“No!” Sakusa calls, closing the distance to your awaiting arms.


End file.
